Family Affair (26 page)

Further, it’s confusing to me, because I can’t tell if he’s doing it to be near me or to gain points with his mom. Is he just trying to make sure I don’t get any closer to his family, so that he can gain some ground with them again? Because he’s not being an overt jerk, it’s unclear.

It’s really a food fight in the most literal sense. It becomes so serious I can only think of our anthropological need for survival; food playing into this theory turns it up about twelve notches and
makes our cook-off stressful and harried. I find myself sacrificing ingredients and my tried-and-true methods through discomfort. I’m so panicked that when my zucchini bread is burned to a crisp I can’t even point fingers, although I know in my heart I did
not
turn the oven to “broil.”

Halfway through the day, I start feeling hollow. I like being there and love the ritual, but suddenly I’m in a contest against the person I thought I was going to grow old with, and it doesn’t feel right. Also, part of the joy of cooking Thanksgiving dinner for the Fosters was that I was helping Ginny prepare this meal for my husband.

When we get to the actual meal, and Ginny suggests that before we begin we all talk about something we are grateful for, I start to get choked up and feel even more out of place—for the first time in as long as I can remember.

“I’m grateful for this wonderful and crazy family,” Bill says. “I love that no matter what is going on, we always come together on this day. And, of course, I love the grub, which is evidenced by my ever-growing gut.”

“Oh, Bill,” Ginny says. “What gut?”

“And that, ladies and germs, is why I keep her around,” he jokes, and she wrinkles her nose at him, and for a moment I watch them and it’s like they’re the only two people in the world, still so in love after all these years. I feel a stabbing pain in my chest, which is a longing for what they have. I had it. I
thought
I had it. And yet, as I sit here across from my would-have-been one and only, I start to resent him for taking that away from me. It washes over me in a new wave of sadness that’s masquerading as anger. So when it comes to my turn, all I can say is, “I’m grateful that my husband opted not to bring a date.”

But that’s not the worst of it. In all our racing to outcook each other, I had my hands in this bowl of cranberries, that platter of garlic mashed potatoes, and ultimately deep inside the private
parts of our bird as I thrust the stuffing into every crevice. And just as Bill is about to carve the aforementioned turkey, I notice a conspicuous absence on my ring finger.

“Stop!” I shriek at the top of my lungs. My heart starts racing and I start sweating and circling the table. I grab a large spoon and begin to dig into every dish on the table, messing up the beautifully plated meal. There are peas and carrots flying, confused looks going back and forth, and tears streaming down my face though I don’t even know it.

“What is it, honey?” Ginny asks.

“She’s losing it,” Trish says. “And who can blame her?”

“I’m not losing it. I lost it,” I say.

“Told ya.” Brett smirks.

“It’s gone!” I cry, as I look to each confused face before me—searching—hoping someone will help. Then I resume vandalizing the meal, cutting into the turkey, dragging out the stuffing I’d so forcefully shoved in earlier.

“What’s gone, Lay?” Ginny asks, and she stands and walks toward me, placing her hands on my shoulders to steady me as I shake. She gently takes the serving spoon I’m using to desecrate our feast from my hand and moves my hair out of my face. My eyes dart back and forth, staring into hers.

“My ring!” I say. “My wedding ring! It’s somewhere in this meal.”

“Holy symbolism, Batman,” Scott mutters.

“No kidding,” Trish adds.

“It’s kinda coming off anyway, right?” Scott says, and I glare at him.

“Engagement or wedding?” Brett asks. “Because one is a much more expensive digestive.”

“Good band name,” Trish says. “Expensive Digestive.”

“The band,” I clarify. “The symbol of our marriage.”

I realize I’m falling apart, but I can’t stop it. I’ve totally lost
control of myself, my relationship, my life. All I can do is maniacally dig through food.

“Honey,” Trish says. “Step away from the soufflé.”

“It will all still be edible,” I say, unable to stop. Trish sees the gravity of the situation, takes my hand, and guides me into the kitchen to calm me down. At which point I start bawling uncontrollably. Even harder when I spot my ring on the floor.

To hell with it. To hell and back, then back again to hell, with a stop in Vegas for a magic show.

I used to write songs about Brett in my head. They reflect my long-held belief that he’s a dumbass in most respects. They were stupid, and they made no sense. But I see now it was more than sibling rivalry—mainly because he’d never consider me his rival at
anything
. (Well, maybe Madden, since I started kicking his ass. I practiced good and hard to do that.)

Anyway, I love him—yeah, yeah. And maybe there’s been some envy of his genetic advantages, and his luck with Layla, and his charm, and his athletic ability, and his Fisher-Price plastic lawn mower he wouldn’t let me borrow (I’m going back a while on that one, but I can hold a grudge) … but there is a limit. So I took the whole situation as inspiration.

“Every Little Thing He Does Is Spastic.” “Black Hole Scum.” “Sweet Child O’ Moron.” “He Ain’t Heavy (He’s My Butthole).”

That last one I sang to him. He called me a jealous little man, I called him shit-for-brains, and we agreed to disagree. Just before he punched me so hard in the shoulder I had to wear a sling for a week.

But now it’s reached a climax. I’ve watched my brother destroy a perfectly good thing. I didn’t ever—not once—get involved in their relationship in any way except to hang out as the dutiful little tagalong.

But you know what? If he doesn’t appreciate her, it’s his loss. And I don’t see why it can’t be my gain. I’m not stepping in when they’re having some stupid fight. He brought a freakin’ date to the corn maze. Which I won’t even go into. But really? If he can date, then so can she. And I’m a grown person and she’s a grown person. He gave her up. It’s not his business who she dates. Or who I date.

And maybe it’s just me imagining or exaggerating something, but I think the table is at least partially set, as they say. For instance, she’s always saying things to me like, “Sweetie, can you get me some paper towels?” or, “Sweetie, we’re out of paper towels—can you go get some?” or, “Sweetie, can you run an errand for me if you’re not doing anything?”

Not like anyone’s lusting after anyone. I’m not saying that. That would be crazy talk.

So, Saturday Scott calls me and tells me he ran into his ex-girlfriend.

“I could really use a talk,” he says. “Could you meet me at the Apple Pan?”

“Of course,” I say, and I throw on my Adidas.

The truth is, the Apple Pan is a bittersweet choice of restaurant. Brett loves it, and we’d go there at least once a week. He’d wax poetic about their burgers with as much enthusiasm as he’d describe the most amazing eleventh-hour football miracle he’d ever seen. If you ask him why he loves the place so much, he’ll say it’s “because it doesn’t change.” Or his favorite expression, every time he walks in the front door, just after he’s taken an inhale deep enough to suck all of the air out of the place: “It’s like coming home.”

I suppose it makes sense that since they grew up together going there, Scott would love it as much as Brett, but when he asks me to meet him there, although I say yes without hesitation, I feel a stabbing in my heart.

I walk in, and Scott’s sitting at the counter with a seat saved
next to him. He waves me over and smiles awkwardly. I feel bad for the kid and wonder which ex he ran into. None of them stick out in my memory, because none have lasted all that long, so this is actually somewhat surprising—this sudden need for a chat about a girl.

“How’s the burgeoning artiste?” I ask.

“Not burgeoning so much,” he says, with a shrug.

“Why not?” I prompt. Scott’s really talented, and yet he sits on his ass in college, waiting for someone to discover him but never putting his stuff out there. He needs to enter shows and really push himself—or maybe start on a comic book, which is one of his real dreams.

“I need a partner” is his excuse. “Without Neil Gaiman, Dave McKean was just … Dave McKean. Together they made
The Sandman
. Without the story, I just draw pictures. I need someone to make it all make sense.”

“Well, until you find that person you should keep drawing,” I tell him. “You’re too good not to be exercising that muscle.”

He laughs. “You said ‘exercising that muscle.’”

“Ugh.” I groan. “Why do I try?”

We make small talk from the time I sit down until our burgers arrive. Rather, his hickory burger and my grilled cheese sandwich. Scott peels back the paper his comes in and starts in on a Brett-like seminar.

“You only peel back as much as you need,” he says. “They wrap the burgers in this paper for a reason, and if you unwrap the whole thing and try to eat it, it falls apart. I love watching rookies come in and take the whole thing out.”

He snickers as he nods toward a guy three seats down doing what Scott just warned against. It’s a sloppy burger, that’s for sure. Better, the guy is hunching his shoulders to try to conceal the damage, so it looks as though he’s praying over it.

“There’s never an off day in this place,” Scott marvels, as he
opens his mouth extra-wide to take a bite. “The burger is homemade, yet it tastes exactly the same every time. But not in a fast-food, McDonald’s way.”

“I get it,” I interrupt. “You love it here. You love the place, you love the burgers, you love the waiters, you love the institution.”

I love you.

“You love the familiarity,” I go on. And before I can say, “Oh my God, this must be a sign of the apocalypse,” Scott puts cash on the table, under the bill, and covers it up with a salt shaker.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “What’s going on? You just bought my sandwich.”

“It’s five bucks.” Scott shrugs and looks away. “No big deal.”

But it’s a very big deal. “You never pay for anything,” I say. “What’s up? What’s going on?”

“Okay, fine,” Scott says. “She didn’t break up with me. I broke up with her.”

“Oh, we’re finally talking about the girl?” I tease. “So okay, you broke up with her and … what? You regret it? You saw her and she looked great and you realize you made a mistake? You want her back? You can get her back. You weren’t wearing that shirt when you ran into her, were you?”

“No, I don’t want her back,” he says, almost seeming disgusted by the thought.

But isn’t that why we’re here?
I wonder.

It’s almost as if he reads my mind. “Wanna know why I asked you here?” he says, ripping his burger wrapper into little itty-bitty
pieces. “Because I saw that girl and it reminded me of why I broke up with her. I broke up with her because she was nothing like you. Because I wanted a girl like you.”

“That’s sweet, Scotty,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll find the right girl one of these days.”

“There’s only one right girl,” he says, now looking right at me. “And now that you and Brett are over—”

“Whoa, buddy!” I interrupt, and suddenly I’m tasting spoiled mayonnaise in my mouth and my eyes are stinging like I’ve just bitten into a lemon-crusted jalapeño sandwich. “Let’s not get crazy here.”

“I’m not getting crazy,” he says. “I’m getting honest. You get one life. One shot at happiness.”

“I think you probably get more than one shot at happiness. But yeah. Only one life.”

“I’ve been in love with you since Brett brought you home in tenth grade. You were wearing a Skid Row T-shirt with a tiny hole in the neck. It said
Youth Gone Wild
on it and had a picture of a dude who looked like a chick, and I asked you about it and you said Sebastian Bach was the only guy you’d ever kiss besides my brother if given the chance, and I wished I was Sebastian Bach. And I fuckin’ hated that band. And then that song ‘I Remember You’ came out and I couldn’t escape them. It seemed almost ironic. I’d have daymares—”

“‘Daymares’?” I ask.

“Nightmares during the day when you’re awake,” he explains. “I’d be in love with my brother’s girlfriend and I’d become this sad Bukowski-like drunk, and I’d wind up on skid row and it would all come full circle.”

“A lot of that was exaggerated for artistic effect,” I say. “But to the issue at hand, Scotty, I’m kinda feelin’ a little like Dorothy on this one—meaning totally flipping blown away. I don’t want to be insensitive, but I’m not one hundred percent sure you’re not fucking with me. Because this is so out of left field.”

“Are you blind?” he says, and his voice goes up about two octaves. “Have you really been oblivion this whole time?”

“Oblivious
, and yes, I guess I have,” I say, wanting to shift time forward to a month from now.

“Well, now you know, then,” he says, and takes his snow-cone cup out of its holder, pours the last bit of Coke he has left into it, which is not even a sip’s worth, and drinks.

“You don’t want
me,”
I say. “I’m the path of least resistance. You think you want me because I’m nonthreatening. I’m around all the time. I’m familiar. Like this restaurant. But the truth is the food here may not be as awesome as you think. You’re just conditioned to think so because your dad and brother took you here as a kid and hyped it up. It’s this landmark institution, and people come here and are willing to wait, Lord knows why, to sit at the counter and eat burgers that I’m not sure are better than In-N-Out’s but cost twice as much. You follow?”

“You insult my favorite restaurant
and
my taste in women?”

“C’mon, Scott,” I say. “You know you don’t mean this.”

“Okay, if you say so,” he says, oddly letting go of the notion of our relationship like a dirty napkin. I’m trying to be sensitive to him but also not blow this up into an awkward mess.